


holdfast

by inkk



Category: Metallica
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/F, Forced Orgasm, Gender or Sex Swap, Held Down, Lesbian Character, Masturbation Interruptus, Quiet Sex, Rule 63, Sharing a Room, a pouring, consider our mutual jewel an untouching, hey - you there - change of mind - eh?, into sweet and emptied arms called worth and habit, not morning's bleary mirror or the slick embrace at hand, while nothing satisfies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28596153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkk/pseuds/inkk
Summary: It's too much, too fast, too hard, just like everything else they do together.
Relationships: James Hetfield/Lars Ulrich
Comments: 9
Kudos: 29





	holdfast

**Author's Note:**

> yay :-) more leztallica :'-)
> 
> cw for fucking while buzzed + minor consent issues.  
> (everything's consensual on lars' end, but what the fuck, james.)

+

On nights like these, Lars is glad to be alive.

They're firing on all cylinders and the crowd is going absolutely fucking nuts, headbanging and thrashing in a writhing mass of long hair and denim. Maybe it's only a hundred people, but Lars doesn't fucking care; she’s hammering away behind her kit like she's playing Madison Square anyways, her t-shirt drenched with sweat under the blazing club lights. The air is hot and sticky, verging on hard to breathe, but she’s having the fucking time of her life. She doesn't falter for a second when her crash falls over right during the middle of Motorbreath. They finish strong and the crowd fucking loves them and by the time they get off stage Lars is—

She's _wet_.

They use their beer tickets up fast. By the time she gets home she’s exhausted and elated and most of the way drunk, still riding the high of the music. Her ears are ringing. She stumbles to the shower and doesn't even bother to dry off after, just falls into bed with damp hair and leftover mascara staining raccoon eyes into her skin. She haphazardly tugs the covers up to her neck, shoves a hand down her pants and rubs one out fast and hard.

When she wakes back up at ten the next morning with dried drool glued to her pillow, James is snoring in the other bed.

+

It’s something about the music, she thinks. The low growl of the bass and the pound of the drums beneath her sticks, James laying down the rhythm as Kirk’s guitar howls over top.

Back in LA, nobody thought they were going to make it far — four rude, ugly girls with no money and no sex appeal to speak of — but they will. Lars knows they will. They're loud, and they're out for blood, and Kill ‘Em All is changing the world of metal one glossy black record at a time. Lars swears she can feel it in her bones.

It’s exhilarating, watching the album gain traction around the Bay Area. The gigs just keep getting better; more practiced, more confident, more ticket sales. Kirk is filling the space Dave left better than Lars ever could have hoped for. They're drawing bigger and bigger crowds every time and it feels like they're finally starting to sneak a little tiny taste of what it could be like if — no, _when_ — they make it big

But the music itself, that's where the real attraction is. It’s hot and heavy and dark and it reaches somewhere in her core that just makes her want to fight everybody on earth, or maybe fuck them, too, while she’s at it. When she's slamming on her drums and she looks out at that little sea of sweaty faces, and then at James, standing tall with her legs spread wide and her fluffy blonde head bobbing with the beat, she swears she’s died and gone to heaven. It turns her on and gets her off and keeps her coming back for more, every single time.

+

She and Kirk duck out after the show that night, leaving James and Cliff to their own devices. They end up across town, drinking and snorting whatever they can get their grubby paws on. It’s almost four in the morning by the time Lars finally makes it back to the room.

She nearly trips and brains herself as she stumbles in the direction of her bed. The blinds are shut tight against the streetlight outside, turning everything into a swimmy, murky darkness. James is nothing but a vague, shadowy lump of blankets on the other side of the room.

Lars clambers into bed and fights with her shoes for a moment. She lets them drop to the floor with two soft thumps, then flops onto her back and lies there for a second, watching the ceiling tilt and sway gently above her.

God, it was a good night. The show had been phenomenal — part of her still feels high off of the crowd’s energy, her skin buzzing with restless hunger, keeping her eyes wide open even though she knows she should get some sleep.

“James?” she whispers after a second.

No movement.

She licks her lips and tries again, a little louder. “James?”

No response.

Lars huffs a soft sigh and rubs at one eye. She strips off her shirt and bra, haphazardly flinging them over the side of the bed to join her dirty sneakers. She rolls over and yanks the covers up, tucking them in around herself and fussing with the blankets until she’s satisfied with her little cocoon. Her right hand comes to rest on her belly.

Idly, she toys with the waistband of her underwear.

It’s not like she makes a point of jacking off while James is in the room, but it’s not like it really bothers her all that much, either. They've known each other for years, and this point, well.

“James?” she tries once more, just in case.

Nothing.

Lars rolls over onto her back and lifts her legs, rocking side-to-side a little as she shimmies her briefs down her thighs, leaving them hooked around her ankles. She doesn't think about it too much as she slips a hand between her legs.

She’s already wet — has been since a half hour before the show, practically soaking her panties for no reason at all — and the slide is smooth and easy as she drags her index and middle fingers up through her labia, coating her fingers and rubbing softly over her clit.

God, yeah.

She lets her mind wander, flicking through her usual mental file folder of fantasies; the one where she’s tied up in a sex dungeon somewhere, or the one where she's riding the subway late at night, or the time she accidentally stumbled across Kirk’s sex toy collection, or that chick from the front row at the show two nights ago with the dark eyes and the big tits, and the look on her face when Lars stuck her tongue out at her…

Yeah, she can work with that.

Lars circles her finger a little faster, a little more firmly. Her lips part on a soft exhale. In her mind, she’s back at the show, backstage in that shitty dressing room except now that chick’s there with her, shirtless, backing her up against that shitty collapsible table with her tits brushing soft and warm against Lars’ own. She's wearing red lipstick. It leaves cherry-coloured smears down Lars' chest and stomach as the chick works her way down with her lips and tongue, pushing Lars back onto the table with unrealistic strength and pinning her down, pushing her thighs apart, exposing her like she's on a fucking examining table. 

Lars' breathing deepens and slows as she closes her eyes and rocks down into the motion, the bedding rustling slightly with the motion of her hips. Her fingers speed up, dipping downwards, curling into herself for the briefest of seconds before moving back up. Her thighs flex, falling open just a little further.

The scenario switches gears, now, seamlessly morphing the way only fantasies and dreams and bad trips do; the chick's wearing a slutty nurse costume, complete with white fishnets and shiny latex gloves and a little hat. Lars has her feet in the stirrups and the chick is sitting between her thighs, looking up at her, saying—

“Can you at least try to be quiet?”

James’ voice seems to float out of nowhere. Lars’ breath promptly dies in her throat, her legs snapping together beneath the covers. “Jesus fucking—” She swallows hard. “James? What the fuck are you…”

A grunt from across the room. “Seriously. You jack off more than any other chick I know and you're still not even subtle about it.”

Lars’ cheeks go hot. “I wasn't—”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ were. I can see you movin’ around from here, dickhead.”

Lars licks her lips. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.”

A pause.

“Uh, I’m just gonna go to sleep, then.”

James huffs a sigh. Her blankets rustle as she repositions herself. “Whatever.”

Lars rolls back over onto her side, facing away from James. Her face is aflame as she wipes her fingers on the sheets and slowly, discreetly tries to work her underwear back up her legs.

 _Just when it was getting good, too_.

She can vividly picture James’ grumpy, sleepy expression. It makes her stomach twist a little. She’s still all worked up on whatever little white pill Kirk slipped her two hours ago, and she’s convinced she’s never going to be able to get to sleep.

She stares into the darkness for a long minute, then sighs softly.

“...James.”

“What.”

“I can’t sleep, man.”

“Lars, it’s four in the fuckin’ morning.”

“Can we go watch a movie, or something? Please?”

“Go watch one by yourself.”

“But it’s not the same.”

“No.”

“But James—”

“No.”

“C’mon, man, can’t you just—”

_”No.”_

Lars tucks the blankets closer to herself, scowling. “But—”

She hears James’ curt huff of frustration in the dark. There’s a rustling from the other side of the room and then the sound of heavy footsteps stumbling through the mess, and then Lars’ mattress dips and the covers lift up, letting in a gust of cold air as James slides in behind her. Lars makes an undignified squawk — somewhere between a “hey” and a “get out” and a “what the fuck, man”.

“Shut up,” James mutters into her hair, and suddenly, Lars does.

Because that’s James’ strong arm hauling her in close, and James’ mosquito-bite tits pressed up against her bare back, and James’ long fingers skimming down over the swell of her stomach, over her underwear, pressing hard at the wet patch between her legs.

“F-Fuck,” Lars blurts out in surprise.

“Shut up.”

“James, I—”

“Shut up, or I stop.”

James’ fingers curl in sharply, pressing over her slit through the fabric of her underwear. Lars has to slap a palm over her own mouth to stop a shocked whimper from escaping. Dumbly, she nods in agreement. Her ass is pressed snug up against the bony cradle of James’ pelvis, one of James’ furry calves wedging its way between hers, holding her tight. James smells like she always does — sort of like stale sweat and beer and something a little richer — and it’s familiar in a way that makes Lars’ brain short-circuit. They've kissed a handful of times before, drunk out of their minds, but this isn't that. This is…

James’ fingers swipe up, dragging over the swollen nub of her clit and drawing a soft circle. Lars can feel her breath, warm against the nape of her neck. James’ fingers press a little harder, sliding into a V, and then she fucking _squeezes_ , making Lars shudder and muffle her choked-out gasp into the flesh of her palm.

Okay, this is officially not just a drunken grope.

Lars has no fucking idea what the fuck is going on right now, but she’s not about to try and stop it. She can already feel herself starting to soak through her underwear, tacky and damp where it rubs against her inner thighs as she tries to hump forward into James’ hand.

“Stop fuckin’ squirming,” James grunts, smacking her thigh.

It’s only a light, chastising slap, but Lars has to bite into the flesh of her hand to cover her moan all the same. She forces herself to go still. Every single nerve in her body is singing, crying out, desperate for James to continue. She’s not even all that drunk anymore, but it sure as fuck feels like she is.

Her legs are too close together for James to bother trying to get her underwear down; James pulls them to the side instead, clumsily wedging them into the seam of her thigh before pushing her fingers into the soft heat of Lars’ cunt.

Lars doesn't quite manage to silence the groan it drags from her chest. It’s starting to get way too hot with both of them under the covers; she can already feel her back starting to stick to James’ stomach where James’ shirt has ridden up, holding Lars in place as her wrist picks up a rhythm. Her fingers dip inward, curling into Lars and then slipping back out again, slowly stroking the length of her cunt.

One of Lars’ legs twitches. She ekes out a whimper, breathing hard. “James—” she tries to say.

“I’ll gag you, Ulrich, I swear to god.”

Lars’ mouth snaps shut. She swallows audibly and bites down hard on her lower lip, her hips ticking shallowly into James’ hand again despite herself. _Oh, fuck._

She lifts her top leg slightly, propping her knee up to give James marginally better access, which James immediately takes it as permission to really go to town on her clit — rubbing firm and steady and almost unfairly fast, just like her downpicking — and oh, sweet mother of pearl, Lars swears she whites out for a solid thirty seconds. She sucks in a deep breath through her nose. Her eyes have scrunched shut, her chin dropped to her collarbones, her unoccupied hand finding James’ forearm where it’s wrapped around her ribs and gripping hard. Her toes curl into the bedding.

All she can do is lie there, spooned up against James, squirming and huffing unsteady breaths through her nose as James holds her tight like a motherfucking boa constrictor. She can't move. She doesn't _want_ to move. It's too much, too fast, too hard, just like everything else they do together.

Dimly, she thinks James might be humping her ass, but she can't be sure. It’s probably not even good for James in the slightest, but when James opens her mouth and says “I want you to come for me,” right into Lars’ ear, it’s — oh, jesus christ, it’s her sex voice.

Her tone is weirdly stony, pitched low and dominant in a way Lars normally associates with bright lights and a crowd full of people, but they're not trying to prove their worth to a room full of sweaty, jeering men or dodging fucked-up catcalls right now. This is miles away from that. This is just the two of them — James in boxer shorts and a sleep shirt, holding Lars tight in their messy bedroom and fucking blasting her clit like this is the last orgasm Lars is ever gonna have. The whole situation might even seem kind of funny, maybe, if Lars had any coherent thoughts left to string together.

James feels overwhelmingly close as Lars’ body trembles against her, willing James to keep going for just thirty fucking seconds ‘cause she’s so close, _so close_ , feeling that familiar, crampy kind of flutter building somewhere in her guts and then all of a sudden she’s moaning into her palm, back arching and her knees drawing up, thighs clenching tight around James’ wrist while James’ fingers keep stubbornly working at her cunt.

Lars makes a desperate, strangled noise, halfway between a whimper and a cry of pain. Her left heel jolts downwards, knocking hard against one of James’ shins and she mumbles a pinched-sounding “Fucking shit, god,” between her fingers.

Her knees are still shaking when James finally slows and withdraws her fingers. Lars belatedly lets her hand fall from her mouth, blinking stupidly into the darkness.

There’s so much she wants to say, but for once in her fucking life, she can't think of the right words to say it.

“James,” she finally starts. Her voice sounds hoarse and raspy to her own ears. She licks her lips and feels a soft exhale against the back of her neck.

“If you wake me up before noon I'll start auditioning new drummers,” James mutters, rolling away. The covers lift and then drop behind her, letting in a gust of air that feels cold against Lars’ sweaty skin.

She counts James’ footsteps, listening to her pad across the room and climb back into her own bed.

+

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: @[newsteds](http://newsteds.tumblr.com) ♥️
> 
> (please do not ask for a part 2 lmao, i'm sorry but there will not be one for this particular fic !! it was originally supposed to be a oneshot for ficmas & that's the way i'd like to leave it)


End file.
